So the kids and I get there just when she was wrapping up surgery. I don't know how I always imagine the total opposite of what's going on, but when she said fern, I pictured lush greenery. What I saw was a brown rootball that had been disected with a reciprocating saw and couldn't tell head from tail. I didn't want to express doubt that the victims were still alive, so thankfully without any prompting my friend assured me that once I planted them (didn't matter which way), they would come back. Ok, I figured I didn't have anything to lose.
The kids and I came home and potted two pieces. My little helpers had a great time wearing my old gloves, scooping soil and dumping it in every pot they could reach. After salvaging soil from the garage floor and two little monkeys, I set the ferns in the corner of the garage and forgot about them.
To my pleasant surprise yesterday, I peeked over and noticed two tiny little fronds emerging from their sea of brown. I grabbed the hubby to show him, and in classic form he asked me if they're weeds. Sorry hon, they're a little bigger today and they're most definately ferns! What do husbands know anyway?
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